


over the counter

by fleetofships



Series: over the counter [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bakery AU, Croissants, F/M, and you want to set yourself on fire?, niall is basically the best, that feeling, tw: carbohydrates, you know it feels when you have a crush, you know it's just a bunch of fluff and a little bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetofships/pseuds/fleetofships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Boyhood still dusts across his face in big, hopeful grins that cut dimples into his cheeks and wide green eyes. Otherwise, adolescence has left him with a sharply cut jaw and a deep, deliberate way of speaking. His name is Harry, and he is beautiful.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And she’s just paid £5 for a croissant and the world's smallest coffee.</i>
</p>
<p>(A short tale of obsession and carbohydrates.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	over the counter

Maggie’s never noticed the big-windowed bakery a few blocks down from her tiny flat before, and she’s lived off Church for two months. It’s called _Le Petit Pain._ Actually, she hasn’t had any time to notice _anything_ between seminars and critiques and _oh god why did I want to paint._

Laden with a heavy bag full of art supplies (new oil paints, a few replacement brushes and a fresh sketchbook), her cheeks feel raw against the cold. The steamy window showcases a rack filled to the brim with golden-brown breads, almost calling her inside. 

The wind blows through her again, and a shiver runs up her spine. 

She steps through the door, and a bell jangles overhead. The sweet smell of baked butter and brewing coffee meets her nose. She immediately feels warmth returning to her cheeks, her fingers, her body, and loosens the knot of her red scarf.

Maggie smiles. The little things, really. 

The bakery is all wooden and cozy, but not violently doilied. There are more racks of fresh bread behind the worn counter, a glass case gleaming with pastries, and a few tables sprinkled throughout the front on its scuffed wooden floors. A few patrons linger over tea, their plates empty except for some crumbs. 

Maggie presses her nose against the glass case, and there are so many things to spend her meager student income on: shiny eclairs, glazed danishes, other things she can barely pronounce in stunted French. She decides on a perfect-looking croissant, which she imagines will shatter into a beautiful, buttery shards once she takes a bite.

Then she meets someone’s eyes behind the glass, and she takes a step back.

It’s a boy, and he’s adjusting a sign for chocolate chip cookies with a nimble motion that belies his big hands. Maggie’s heart skips two beats. 

This boy rests his chin on top of his long, twined fingers on the glass case, elbows askew, and half-smiles at her, a dimple forming in his right cheek. His chestnut curls peek out from underneath a wooly blue beanie, framing his face. 

“Hello. Can I help you get something, love?” His voice is a deep rasp, slow like honey and just as sweet. 

She swallows, then forces herself to look away. _Shit._ “A croissant, please. And a small black coffee?” 

“Coming right up, miss.” He jokingly salutes her, his pretty lips pursed, and turns around to pour her coffee out of the giant carafe behind the counter. He hums along with the music playing softly over the speakers.

She studies everything about him as he saunters behind the counter with ease, his apron tails bobbing with every step. His olive jumper fits loosely around him, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. Tattoos are scattered up and down his arms, almost randomly, and the black ink is such a contrast against his pale skin. 

He slides back to the counter, paper bag and coffee in hand, and motions for her to come closer. His pale, bottle green eyes shine in the yellowy bakery lights, and it’s a miracle that she hasn’t fallen over. 

“Four pounds eighty,” he says, finally, and he towers over the low counter, like he almost takes up more space than his lithe frame should allow. 

She awkwardly digs in her purse for her wallet, then finds a five pound note. She hands it to him, and reads the name tag clipped onto the strap of his apron. _Harry._

Harry jostles with the register, and there's a metallic clanging of buttons underneath his fingers.

“Here’s your change, miss.” The way his lush mouth moves is almost obscene. 

She waves a hand in front of him. “Keep it. Thanks, Harry.” It’s not a lot -- a whole twenty pence-- but she knows how much it can matter. 

“Thanks!” Harry says, leaning forward on the low counter, resting his elbows on the wood, head cradled sideways in his hand. “Enjoy the croissant.” The smile playing on his lips turns into a full-on grin with both dimples now canyoning his cheeks, one loose curl draped across his forehead. 

She grabs the croissant and coffee, the paper bag crinkling loudly in her hands. Maggie almost forgets her shopping bag as she kind of runs out of the bakery, a little breathless, and into the street.

Walking down the road to her flat, thoughts flood her mind about the boy behind the counter.

No, not a boy, but someone emerging from teenagedom with a grace few possess. Boyhood still dusts across his face in big, hopeful grins that cut dimples into his cheeks and wide green eyes. Otherwise, adolescence has left him with a sharply cut jaw and a deep, deliberate way of speaking. His name is Harry, and he is beautiful.

And she’s just paid £5 for a croissant and the world's smallest coffee.

* * *

 

That first bite is everything.

The croissant is perfectly buttery, slightly warm, and a contradiction of senses; simultaneously mouth-meltingly tender and shatteringly crisp. 

If Maggie was a person to cry about pastry, she’d be sobbing all down Church. It’s enough for her to forget about the biting cold for a few moments, stuffing it back into its bag, crumpling the opening over on itself.

She climbs the two flights of stairs up to her studio flat above a tiny hair salon, balancing the coffee and bags in her hands. It’s precarious, but she makes it inside, the plastic art supply bag cutting into her hand.

Maggie savors the rest of what’s left of the croissant, between gulps of coffee. Picking crumbs off her rickety coffee table, she imagines Harry in the back kitchen, wearing a flour-dusted apron, delicately cutting dough triangles with a bench scraper. 

Maggie shakes that daydream away, and gets up to put away the supplies and to make friends with the blank canvas mocking her in the living room.

He probably doesn’t even bake. 

* * *

She stops by the bakery twice in the next week.

The first time is the day after. She sits through the world’s most tedious art history lecture, and the need for caffeine guides her every step back to the flat. It’s early afternoon, and the watery sun is thin behind wintry, grey clouds. 

Maggie needs to study, paint, and silence her mobile for a few hours. The campus studio is stifling at times, and most of a final piece is drying back at her flat. 

She ignores those windows just bursting full of baked goods and the pretty door calling out, but then she doesn’t. The bakery probably pumps the smell of bread and butter through every vent in the neighborhood to get people salivating, as well as hiring pretty, tattooed boys with stubborn mouths. 

Well, it works, and she gives into the compulsion. She turns on her heel at the end of the block, _just bugger sense_ , opens the bakery door, and steps inside.

A very stupid part of her wonders if Harry is working. The other parts just really want some coffee and calories, pushing the memory of that croissant into the forefront of her mind. Then the very, very idiotic part of her wonders what he’s wearing.

It’s a little bit busier than the day before, with a few couple older ladies milling about the counter, like hens clucking softly, around the last of the morning bread. 

Maggie finds him, tucking a boule into a plastic bag with care for an elderly woman, and she nearly ducks. She doesn’t, because the case is glass, it’s pointless, and Harry notices her, _oh god._

The eye contact is too brief, and he goes back to his bread.

Another person behind the counter deals with a few of the hens, and the old ladies chatter as they amble out of the shop. 

Maggie pretends to not know what she wants, eyebrows knit in faux-concentration, overhearing him speak kindly to the woman at the counter. His curls are tied back with some sort of black fabric bandana. The tails of two tattooed birds peek from underneath his v-neck tee, ending at the cut of a perfect clavicle, and she imagines finding each of his tattoos. Maybe they're sprinkled all over his body, each one with a meaning. 

Maggie swallows, and finds her mouth dry.

“There’s a little surprise in there for you, Mrs. Eaves.” The mischief is evident in his voice, and he hands her the paper package.  “Don’t tell Barbara.”

The little, bundled silver-haired woman giggles as well as a little old woman can, tells Harry _the cheek of you, lad._ Maggie hears the jangle of the doorbell behind her, as the woman leaves, the cold air rushing through the space. 

Harry slides over to the glass case, once again resting his head in his hands. He’s wearing a kind smile that lights up the room, and he shares it unabashedly. 

“Hello,” he says. Recognition glimmers briefly in those green eyes.

“Hi.” Maggie hopes that doesn’t sound as meek as she feels. She straightens with a sharp intake of breath. She can do this, has done this, even. It's just a bloody pastry. “A croissant and a small black coffee. Please.”

“Sure thing, love.” She wonders if he says that to everyone. Love. Like it’s nothing to dole out. 

It’s over too quickly. He grins widely -- too easily and perfect --at her the whole time, handing her the coffee and paper bag, keeps the change and she’s out the door within minutes. She feels slightly shaken. 

She curses, but the croissant is heaven. She eats with gusto this time, the thoughts of Harry’s bony wrists and his gangly limbs racing through her head. 

The second time is a Friday afternoon, after a critique and before a marathon of painting at the school studio. Harry is there again. She’d be lying if she didn’t hope.

He recognizes her clearly now. 

“Black coffee and… a croissant,” he says as soon as she's done pretending to peruse the glass case, sounding proud of himself. If her cheeks weren't already rosy from the blustery weather outside, they are now. She wishes she could hide in her scarf. 

“Hi yourself, too, Harry." She likes the shape of his name in her mouth. "And yes. That would be great." She tries not to sound too eager.

Harry bites down on a smile, and laughs a little. Once again, his head is beanie-clad. It’s a bright yellow number that offsets his eyes in a charming way. She notices the olive jumper he’s wearing, hem unraveling slightly and makes the connection. It’s the one he wore when she first came in here, still hitched up to his elbows, and she feels utterly fucked.

"Coming right up. I'd say your name, but I don't know it." He gestures his hand forward as if to ask, then crosses his long arms, amused.

It takes her a second. "Maggie." 

"Great. Maggie, one amazing croissant and a small black coffee coming right up. And yes, I'll keep the twenty pence."

He's already fiddling with the coffee server behind him, pouring the liquid into a cardboard cup with efficiency. From behind, she notices his worn, black jeans, so skinny that she wonders if he's wearing any pants. 

_Don't think about his pants._

"D'ya go to Camberwell?" Harry's voice startles her with its velvet tones from behind the counter. “You look like you do."

He slides the door of the case open as he asks this, and contemplates the line of croissants for a few seconds, like picking a jewel from a case.

"I study painting there, yes," Maggie answers, a little confused. Harry finally decides on the third one in, biting the side of his lip. 

"What do you mean I _look_ like I go to Camberwell?" She pretends to be put out, leans over the low counter, watching his bent back as he places the croissant gingerly into a paper back. His legs go on for ages, which is unfair, really.

"Takes one to know one, Maggie." He passes her the drink and pastry, his lips quirking into that smile of his. "I'm studying photography. Maybe I'll see you there sometime soon."

All she can do is nod. Of course he's a photography student, with his perfect collection of tattoos and secondhand, woolen clothing items and long, slender fingers that practically look like they belong around a camera lens. He probably has an army of women at his beck and call, ready to have animalistic sex, or whatever. 

She pays quickly, lets him keep the change, not saying anything more or thinking about animalistic sex. Maggie thinks she hears him say her name in a goodbye, but she's already out the door. 

She only eats half of it this time. That night, tired to her bones, the smell of paint thinner drifting from her hands, she dreams of lacquered dough and wickedly adorable smiles. 

* * *

Maggie pops into _Le Petit Pain_ at least three times a week for the next two months of term. She pretends it isn’t for the chance to catch Harry, to study the way he tucks every pastry into its bag like a precious relic. Sometimes Harry isn’t even there, it's another employee or two. There’s a ginger named Ed with a toothy smile, Barbara who's as lovely and warm as the bakery itself, and a few other friendly employees, and that's okay. Really okay. 

It begins to feel like a second home with the smell of fresh bread and the warmth of cinnamon.

She refuses to be the person who memorizes some proper fit boy’s work schedule (he’s definitely always there on Tuesday. Sometimes Monday afternoons. And Fridays.)  It’s for the croissants, sure, because they’re creative fuel. James Jean probably eats a ton of specialty pastries before attacking a canvas. Right. 

Doing the maths after two weeks, Maggie figures she’s probably consumed about a kilo of butter. So, she stops eating all of them to save her waistline, because who can afford new jeans with this dumb Harry -- she means, _croissant_ \-- habit. 

Maggie doesn’t stop buying them, though, because Harry’s lips are always curled into a smile as he hands her the hot to-go cup and the crinkled bag that eventually ends up in the bin at her flat. That smile is definitely worth the five pounds at least. Any sense of guilt regarding wasted carbs is washed away by the way he says her name.

She allows herself a croissant on Fridays, after two hours of regular art critique by her peers. 

It’s three weeks and four days before Maggie and Harry talk beyond their regular, rehearsed conversation. As he’s pouring her tiny cup of coffee, he asks over his shoulder, “So, how’s painting and whatnot?” 

The words shake her out of admiring his bum in skinny jeans. “Oh, you know, _fine._ ” It wasn’t fine, really, because second year uni is kind of a creative drag, and she doesn’t know how many more abstract impressionist paintings of people’s daddy issues she can take. 

“Crits on Friday mornings are the bane of my existence,” Maggie adds with a sigh.

Harry huffs out a sharp, understanding laugh. He turns, placing her coffee on the counter and reaches for a lid, his pink tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth. He secures the lid with his thumb. “Yeah, mine are on Thursday morning. I always need like, a Red Bull to get through them. If I have to hear one more dumb metaphor about light, I swear.” He pretends to hang himself. 

He pushes the tiny coffee and croissant toward her. She tries to swallow down a giggle, and fails, the flush very evident on her cheeks.

“I’ll see you soon, Maggie, eh?”  Harry leans against the register, his flannel shirt folded up to his elbows, tattoos displayed on his gangly arms. 

Maggie screams into a throw pillow as soon as she gets home. The croissant makes her feel only marginally better.

Every time Maggie sees Harry the rest of term, they end up bantering for a little bit over the weathered counter, or as he sweeps up the lobby. They share tidbits of their lives. She pieces together the puzzle that is Harry-the-baker-and-photography-student. Harry is from Cheshire, loves his mum and sister, and he’s really good at making fajitas, which he mentions randomly. Photography excites him, and he speaks a little bit faster than his normal, gravelly drawl, the passion for it flooding his every feature. Maggie tries not to gape as his mouth moves over syllables and curves over consonants. 

It’s a cold, rainy Tuesday when he asks, green eyes widening, “You like Two Door Cinema Club?“ He’s refilling the napkin dispenser on the counter, and a few of them flutter to the floor.

“Did the shirt give it away?”  Maggie tilts her head, gesturing at her chest underneath her open coat. Shit. Not on purpose. She bends down to help him pick up the scattered napkins. "Yeah, they're pretty brilliant."

“I saw them at Leeds with my mate Louis, and it was phenomenal,” he beams, like sunshine on this particularly cloudy day, and their hands touch through the napkins.  “Let me get your coffee, yeah?”

Maggie doesn’t know how she survives that.

The bin by the front door slowly fills with increasingly stale pastries. Sometimes she feeds the pieces to birds, or gives a fresh one to a classmate. Mostly they just sit there until the bin is full, mocking her with their expense, and she empties it into the outside receptacle. She eats a lot of cheap ramen otherwise and listens to _Tourist History_ on repeat. 

“Where do you keep getting these?” her friend Chloe whispers in the back of a lecture hall, picking crumbs off her notebook. “They’re so good.” 

“This bakery on Church. I _know._ ” She doesn’t mention Harry, his thousand watt smile, or her dwindling bank account. She doesn’t give away how she furiously paints assignments late at night, just trying to think of anything besides his dimples, his dark curls, and propensity for tight jeans. Seriously. What a dick. Where did he get off? 

Maggie tries to convince herself that she should be over this. It worries her that she isn’t, but not enough to stop visiting. 

Harry surprises her later that week with a bag waiting for her on the counter, already pouring her coffee. “Morning, Harry. This for me?” 

“Hi, love. Saw you walk up past the windows. And it’s Friday, you know,” he responds with a crooked grin. It’s been a little easier to see him, like blinking away the tears when turning on a light in the dark of a bedroom. But sometimes, it’s fucking hard, like when he drags his teeth over his bottom lip or tucks his hair behind his ear. She thanks him and pays.

“It’s funny.” Harry drums his fingers against the counter, watching her fiddle with her wallet. “We've never seen each other back on campus.”

Thank fucking god, she thinks. 

“Mmyeahthat’sfunny,” she mumbles, an awkward laugh punctuating the end.  She's mortified. Maggie would prefer death at that second, but she soldiers on.  “It’s a big campus and I paint pictures and you shoot them. Different courses."

Harry just laughs, all loose, bright and charming, and shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right, yeah. It’d be cool, though, to see you outside the confines of this bakery establishment. Maybe at one of the end-of-term shows, or something.” 

Harry runs his hands through his hair, shakes, and the curls fall artfully across his forehead. Maggie just nods, and thinks, yes death, please come and save me from this torture chamber you call _Le Petit Pain._

She stands there, waiting to shrug off this mortal coil, mouth slightly agape. The thought of seeing him on campus, or anywhere outside the safe space of the bakery, fucking terrifies her.

"Um, Maggie, you okay?” Harry shoots her a look of concern, perfect eyebrows creased.

“Yeah! Yes. Yep. Totally. Maybe at one of the shows. We’ll see each other. I have to go? Yes. Things to paint. End of term coming soon, and all that.”

Death never comes, the wanker. Harry’s face falls with a  quizzical look. 

“Erm, sure. See you later then, Mags." Harry calls out to her back, as she retreats out of the bakery and onto Church Street. 

Mags? Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Bollocks. Every swear word she’s ever learned, even some in rudimentary Spanish, shouts through her head. Embarrassing display back there. Get your shit together, Maggie.

She doesn’t allow herself this croissant, even though she fucking deserves it for surviving Harry and an especially harsh critique about the context of her current pieces. Instead, she leaves it on her coffee table till Sunday. The butter seeps through the paper, turning the bag translucent, mocking her.

She tosses it into the bin in the middle of a marathon of Downton Abbey and prepping canvases, trying not to think of the way his voice said Mags. 

The next week, Harry already has Maggie’s order prepped every time before she even greets him. 

"I do this for all my regulars, I swear. Ask Ed," he explains quickly from under his lashes. He gestures with a baguette at the ginger lad in an apron flitting from the back kitchen door to the front counter with a tray of fresh cookies.  

Ed rolls his eyes as Harry packs up the baguette for a businessman in front of her. 

Maggie convinces herself Harry’s preparedness doesn’t mean a damn thing, the bitter taste of coffee in her throat. Six perfect, uneaten croissants live in her bin next to empty coffee cups. They don’t matter anymore, because as earth shattering as they are, nothing is as earth shatteringly beautiful and terrible as _Harry._

This realization hits her hard. Panicking, she texts Niall to immediately come over with a bottle of wine.

* * *

Niall is bundled up to his throat, cheeks ruddy, and smiling widely when he walks through her door later that evening, wine in hand. He’s a brother to her, all blonde quiff and Irish enthusiasm down to his soul. They snogged once, drunk and needy, during a first year party, and that’s as far as it ever went. 

He doesn’t ask any pressing questions before he plops down on her ratty futon. They alternate taking swigs of cheap, red wine straight out of the bottle. 

In the middle of The Lego Movie, Niall presses into her shoulder with his. “So, this is about a lad, right?”

Maggie nods, gulping down a large mouthful of wine. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, wincing. Niall takes the bottle. 

“His name is Harry and he works at the bakery-café down the road, wears these awful beanies and he’s just fucking perfect.” She buries her face into his shoulder, and knows that Niall won’t judge. 

He chortles, patting her softly on the head. “ _Le Petit Pain_ , right? My friend Ed Sheeran works there. I’ve met Harry. Tall one, posh sounding, and really into that indie rock chic?”

Maggie nods against the fabric against sleeve, and makes a muffled whimper. “I can’t say anything more about this situation, lest I embarrass myself, Nialler.” 

Niall just chuckles again, and turns up the volume on the movie.

She knows he’ll let it go, and if Niall notices the bag full of croissants, he doesn’t mention it.  

* * *

“Did you think anything special, you know, about the croissants last week, Mags?” Harry sounds expectant. 

He looks tired, bags under his green eyes, but still beautifully bright in spite of them. End of term is looming ever closer. There are many late nights in the studio over canvases and sketchbooks, and it’s probably the same with Harry. She imagines him in a darkroom, silhouetted in red light, serenely agitating chemicals and watching his creations manifest on paper. 

“They were delicious?” Maggie lies, because she still hasn’t allowed herself one.

“Oh, okay. Great,” he says, a little flatly, lips pursed. He looks disappointed, and she doesn’t know why.

Maggie absently sketches Harry in her Moleskin during a lecture, trying to capture him from memory. She tears it out, and throws it away. 

* * *

Niall drags her to an opening of a student photography group exhibition that Friday, begging her to skive off working on final projects for a night. He's tired of working on his own graphic design portfolio. Mostly, he has a crush on a pretty last year named Cheryl, who’s showcasing a few pieces of her final thesis. He also points to the FREE DRINKS printed at the bottom of the flyer, which convinces Maggie more than Niall’s blue, puppy dog eyes and exaggerated pout.

The gallery is packed, and everyone holds their damp coats, scarves and bags while trying to navigate around, making the atmosphere even more chaotic. Niall goes off in search of drinks and Cheryl, probably, leaving Maggie in front of stark, black and white portraits. He holds up his palm, mouths FIVE MINUTES, and pushes his way through the chatter. 

The portraits are fine. The crowd is fine. It's all fine. Cheesy ambient indie rock spills from bad speakers, like it always does at these events. She wishes Niall hadn’t gone off, huffs out a sigh, her boots feeling heavy, and then--

Harry is across the room.  Fuck. 

He's gorgeous and long-limbed, throwing his head back in laughter at someone's joke, dark coat lapels upturned against his profile. He's not behind a counter or underneath a crisp apron; this is real life. The room almost shrinks and darkens around Harry, the world shining every spotlight on him. She swears his teeth sparkle, like some sort of Disney cartoon.

Disney Prince Harry, she thinks. It's hard to find a breath.

Niall pops out of the crowd, looking crestfallen and holding two small cups of beer. He shoves one into her hand. "Oi, Maggie. Can't find Cher anywhere. What's wrong?"

She takes a long gulp out of her cup and nods towards Harry. Niall turns his head. A wave of understanding washes over his face. 

"Oh," he says, barely holding back a guffaw. "Are you gonna talk to ‘im?"

"No way!"

Harry looks over in their direction right then, and Maggie quickly ducks behind Niall, a bit of beer sloshing over her hand. She curses and winces at the same time.

“Are you fucking mental?!” Niall looks over his shoulder at her, clearly amused. She peers around his arm, and Harry, thankfully, hasn’t seen her. 

“I might be, Niall.” Maggie straightens, and lets go of the fabric of Niall’s shirt clutched in her fingers. "Thanks."

Niall rolls his eyes, smoothes the wrinkles in his shirt, and sips his beer. 

They meander carefully around the noisy room -- Maggie keeping an eye on Harry, Niall searching for Cheryl -- and check out the rest of the show. Some of the pieces are really quite good, with Cheryl’s being the best of the crop. They’re fantastical pieces, with ethereal models and moody landscapes. 

Niall sighs and chews at the side of his lip. “Of course, I have to be in love with someone so talented. Never made it easy on meself.  I’m going to get more beer. Y’want?” He claps his hands together, a goofy smile rising.

Maggie nods, and leans against a wall in between two pieces, watching Niall disappear into the crowd. There’s a lot of chatter about art, music, and finals swirling around her, and she closes her eyes for a second to breathe.

She opens them, and her and Harry’s eyes meet from the middle of the room. Cursing inwardly at no Niall to hide behind, Maggie hopes her face isn’t a violent shade of red. 

Harry waves, a dimpled grin spilling across his face. Maggie waves back,  a little less enthusiastic. For some reason, he begins to walk over through the throng of people, and her heart beats so loudly in her chest, she thinks it might fall out. Her brain enters panic mode, and Maggie seriously considers sliding down the wall to hide.

Before Harry can reach her, he’s accosted by a tall, lavender-haired girl who hugs him from behind, taking him by surprise. His eyebrows raise as the pretty girl covers his eyes and kisses him on the cheek. 

Oh, _great_. 

He turns, jaw dropping with happiness, and scoops this girl into his arms and spins her around as well as one can in a confined space. The pretty, tall, cool-haired girl yanks his green beanie off his head, laughing. He presses his lips to her cheek, and starts hugging her again.

Oh, _great_. 

Niall bumps his shoulder to Maggie’s, another two beers in his hands. “Wow, um, that girl is pretty.”

Maggie tries to contain her frown, feeling it in the corners of her mouth. “I think I’m going to go.”  Niall makes an apologetic noise. Maggie wordlessly squeezes his wrist to reassure him that it’s okay. 

She pecks Niall on the cheek, swipes the other beer out of his hand, and whispers, “I see Cher over by the toilets. Good luck.” 

Niall smirks, touches her shoulder knowingly, and sighs. He trudges towards the loo, a look of rugged determination in his eyes.

Maggie sneaks away through the crowd in the other direction from Harry. He’s still chatting with the pretty, tall, cool-haired, distracting girl. Maggie chugs the beer outside, drops the cup in a bin, and walks home alone. 

* * *

Ed is at the bakery on Tuesday morning instead of Harry, and Maggie's silently relieved. She hasn’t seen Harry since making her speedy exit from the gallery last week, and forced herself to work on every damn end of term thing she could over the weekend instead of dwell on Harry.

Niall texted the day after the party about properly chatting up Cheryl, and finally mustering the nerve to ask her out on a date. 

_She said yes :)))))))) !_

Maggie replied with a _Good job mate!_ then promptly found a friend in a cheap can of beer.

The bakery is festooned with Christmas decorations. It makes for a cheery atmosphere, and yet it’s a somber reminder of the end of term.  

Ed shuffles to the pastry case after greeting her, whistling as he opens the sliding glass door. “The croissants look pretty wicked today.” 

She smiles against her scarf. Ed is pleasantly freckled and always grinning.  “Actually, no. Just coffee today, please. Thank you.” 

Maggie hums to herself, as Ed ambles back to the coffee server, grabbing a to-go cup. 

“Isn’t Harry usually working at this time?” Maggie asks, trying to sound casual and not all desperate. Because she is not desperate enough to know Harry’s schedule.

Ed shrugs, hands her the paper cup, and fiddles with the register. “Haz wanted me to switch. Projects, or summat. His sister’s visiting London, too, I think." 

She nods absently, paying Ed for the coffee.

"Haz's working this afternoon, if you wanted to see him," Ed offers, passing her change back. 

“Nah, Ed,” she replies, curtly, and flings the change into the tip jar. The sound rattles through the bakery. “I don’t want to see Harry. Ta.” 

Maggie ignores the puzzled look on Ed’s face and hurries out of the bakery, into the cold. She stands outside the bakery, and closes her eyes to calm herself. Maggie hates this contradictory feeling inside her chest of swooning over and hating a stupid boy she barely knows. What does she have to be upset about, really? 

Harry is a bag full of stale pastries, a few shared conversations, and a vivid smile that makes her heart race.

It’s nothing, she realizes, and she glances up at the bakery’s sign. Everything she knows about Harry is in this bakery. Then why did it hurt so much to see him even touch another girl? 

She frowns at the cup of coffee in her hand. It’s too bitter all of a sudden, a reminder of her stupidity and the suffocation of a crush. There’s a bare tree on the sidewalk between the curb and the front of the bakery with a small patch of grass. 

Maggie overturns the coffee into the brown grass, watches the liquid seep into the earth, and goes home.

* * *

It’s late Wednesday night, and Maggie is studying for an art history exam when the chorus of John Mayer’s “Love Soon” starts blaring from her mobile. 

 _You can cross the line whenever you want to  
_ _I'm calling it love soon_

She rolls her eyes, and picks up the phone without even looking at this display.

“Niall.” Maggie lowers the volume of her laptop speakers to hear him. “Your ringtone is bollocks.  Can’t believe I let you change it for me.”

“And yet you haven’t bothered to update it in like, six months, Maggie.”

“I’m lazy, and I know you’d just change it back,” Maggie replies, putting down her notes. “What’s up? Taking Cheryl on that date, finally?” 

“That’s tomorrow. I’m taking her to that little Italian place off Church, Caravaggio,” Niall states, proudly. “Anyway, that’s not why I rang ya.”

Niall yawns, then apologizes.

“I saw Ed at the pub tonight. We were havin’ a pint, and he mentioned he saw you yesterday. You were actin’ weird or something. Watched you pour out the coffee you just paid for out in the street. Then, I mentioned how we saw Harry at the opening with some girl --”

“Nialler, you fucking didn’t.” Maggie stands up in a panic, and hears her notebook slide to the floor with a thud. 

“Oh please, it’s not like Ed doesn’t know you’re gagging for it. Anyway, I describe the bird, and guess what?” Niall pauses for dramatic effect, and is met with silence. “You’re supposed to say ‘What, Niall, my Sun and Stars?’ now.”

Maggie hoped Niall could hear the very slow roll of her eyes. “What then, Khaleesi?” 

“That girl’s his _sister_ , Maggie. Her name’s Gemma, and she lives in Manchester,” Niall says finally. “She’s visiting friends for the week, and decided to surprise Harry. Pretty sure Ed fancies her, in fact.”

“Oh.” That’s all Maggie can muster for the next 30 seconds.

“Oh? That’s all you can say?” Niall sounds incredulous. “He’s single, ‘ccording to Ed.” 

“That’s pretty inconvenient considering I’ve decided to hate him for the rest of my life,” Maggie replies sardonically. 

“You’re exaggerating,” Niall counters.

Maggie sighs. “I’m _always_ exaggerating.” 

Niall laughs loudly, and Maggie pulls the phone away from her ear for a second. She brings the phone back to her ear when he returns to a normal volume.

“Look, Ni. Thanks for the ring, but I’m trying to get over it. He’s just a fit boy who smiled at me a lot and then I spent way too much cash on pastries because of it. I’m trying not to pine. Too much shit to worry about. Like exams and final projects and critiques.” Maggie kicks the sketchbook full of drawings of Harry and baked goods under her bed for good measure. She doesn’t know who she’s trying to convince. 

He laughs again. “Right, Maggie. Don’t burn yourself out.”

“Don’t _you_ have you a whole branding project to finish, mate?”

Niall snorts. “Ehhhh, it’s almost done. After the date with Cher.”

“You’re such a procrastinator. Good luck with both, Ni.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Niall says, warmly. “I’ll see ya sometime this week, yeah? Leave that flat for a pint, maybe. Get back to studying or whatever anti-social thing you were doing.” 

“Fuck you, Niall.”

“You love me. Cheers,” he says, then hangs up.

Maggie settles back onto her bed to study after grabbing her notebook off the floor. The words and pictures just look like gibberish. 

His sister. Oh god. _Let us never speak of this again,_ she thinks, slightly humiliated. 

She glances back to her notes, turns up her music, and swallows the embarrassment until all she can think about are brushstrokes and art nouveau and impressionists.

* * *

It’s Friday, glorious Friday, the last day of classes before final critiques and exams, and Maggie feels free.

The wintry sun hangs low in the sky behind grey clouds. It’s colder than it’s been in weeks, and her breath mists in front of her face. 

She hasn’t eaten a single croissant in two weeks, by her last count. They’re still in her bin.

She hasn’t seen Harry in a week.

She hasn’t stepped inside the bakery since Tuesday.

She’s over it. Sure, Maggie walks on the other side of the street while on the bakery’s block, but not because of him.  Because she’s over it! Totally, one hundred percent over it.  She even texted Niall _I’m over it !!!!_ He replied with a thumbs up emoji, then called her and talked about his perfect date with Cheryl. It makes her happy, because someone has to be.

Maggie practically skips in her boots down Church Street from campus, her headphones in and blasting Arcade Fire like she rules the world.

Maggie stops across the street from the bakery, warm and inviting as a hearth in the dusky light, and lets out a foggy breath. She contemplates crossing the street, the thoughts of flaky dough and green eyes flitting through her mind, then shakes that notion off.

Because she’s over it.

Maggie starts down the block again, and barely hears the sound of the screech of brakes, the honk of a horn, and an old man’s cursing. A shadow moves in her peripheral vision.  

That shadow grabs her elbow. Maggie yelps a “holy fuck!”, spins and collides into the shadow in front of her. She’s met with a faceful of olive jumper and the pleasant scent of laundry and buttery dough.

It’s Harry.

Maggie curses at him, because she’s not prepared at all for this. She figured, the only scenario worth preparing for is the one in the future, where Maggie finally marries Andrew Garfield, and she runs into Harry at Harrod’s, hand-in-hand with his second wife. They both laugh about the silly croissants, and decide to meet up for drinks sometime in Kensington. That scenario.

Not now, on Church Street, three blocks from her flat, while Harry is wearing that perfect jumper with its unraveling hem and flour-dusted denim, his cherubic hair pushed back off his forehead. She steps back a foot from him, wide-eyed and hectic.

He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “I’m sorry, Mags. Hi.” 

He’s so, so pretty standing there. And handsome. He is pretty and handsome at the same time, and Maggie doesn’t understand how that works.

“Hi. Um. Harry.” His cheeks are stained pink in the cold air, and he’s tall and warm and lovely. His green eyes are still bright in the darkening street around them, and every contained feeling inside her unravels. 

She’s definitely not over it.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Harry says, surprisingly sheepish. “I saw you crossing the street. Yeah.” 

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip then there’s a small smile, dimples not yet in view. Maggie notices the balled-up apron in his other hand, and the rips in his black jeans, pale white skin peeking through at the knees.

“Wait, did you almost get hit by a car?” She hears the aftermath of the slight commotion in the road.

“Yes, that bloke wasn’t looking.Anyway…” Harry lowers his head, and idly scratches the back of his neck, wearing a rueful smile.A curl falls across his forehead, and she suppresses the urge to reach out and tuck it into place. “I saw you at the gallery opening last week, and by the time I tried to find you again, you’d disappeared. I wanted to say hi. Maybe talk for a bit.”

“Had to dash,” Maggie lies, and hopes Harry can’t hear how loud her heart is beating. “It was late.” 

She tries to look everywhere around him, and they stand there in awkward silence, the low pulse of her music from her headphones between them. Every instinct in her body tells her to run, except for one tiny fiber inside her chest that screams _I love you_.

“Harry, it was good to see you,” she murmurs instead, and turns away, lamely. Fight or flight? Flight, every single time.

He reaches out to her elbow through her coat again, eyebrows creased, pulling her back slightly. “What did I do?” Harry pleads. “You haven’t come into the bakery for a while.”

She almost laughs out of frustration and slides out of his grasp, steps echoing on the sidewalk. Harry follows close behind her. 

“You didn’t do anything,” she throws over her shoulder, pace quickening, and crosses onto the next block of shops. Maggie feels small and dumb, maybe possibly nauseous. “Why are you following me? Aren’t you working!?”

“Ed’s covering right now. It’s slow. He’ll manage,” Harry explains, matter-of-factly, catching up to her. “Can I walk you home? I know it’s not far.”

When Maggie stops to look at Harry, he’s gazing at her with his head tilted, and Maggie fights a smile in spite of all of it. She exhales and hesitates before nodding, and they walk several paces in silence across the pavement, past the row of shops, some of them bright in the dusky light.  Maggie tries to ignore the sound of his boots against the walk, the trail of mist leaving his mouth as he breathes out, and his shadow in the pools of light from the windows of other shops and restaurants. 

“Gemma’s my sister, you know,” Harry says seemingly out of nowhere, his shoulder bumping hers slightly. 

She stops again, and he looks apologetic. Even when he looks sorry, he’s absolutely lovely and Maggie wants to throw her bag on the ground and kiss him.

“Ed told me you saw me with my sister at the opening, and maybe you got the wrong idea about--”

“You don’t owe me any explanations,” Maggie interrupts, and Harry raises an eyebrow. She starts walking again, and makes a mental note to kill Ed Sheeran the next time she sees him. “I’ve been… kind of mental.”

“About that? About me?” 

“About a lot of things.” She’s quiet for a beat, and her shoulders tighten. “I’m trying to get over them.”

Harry stays silent, and when she glances over, he’s watching her timidly. They walk another long block in silence and turn the corner. They reach her building with its worn, red door and small windows above a hair salon.

“So, this is me.” Maggie gestures to the door leading up to her flat, and shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Second floor.”

Harry leans on one hand against the door frame, the other still holding his apron, and meets Maggie’s eyes. He hums a little. They’re dilated in the dim light, ringed in clover, and she wonders if she could ever get tired of looking at them. 

_I like you so much, I bought a million pounds of croissants just to see your face._

Maggie turns away, and her breath rushes out of her all at once. She rests her forehead on the door,  one hand gripping the door knob. She breathes again, tries to gain her composure while thinking about what Niall would say, and the way that Harry’s fucking standing there and every perfect bite of the croissants and and and… 

“Harry,” she says against the door, her voice not quite her own, “do you have time to come up and have a cuppa?” Maggie turns her head, temple still against the door, and blinks a few times to make sure that Harry is still there.

He smiles, fondly, and it feels like the world might end right there. “Sure, okay.”

* * *

Harry is in her flat.

Harry is _in_ her flat.

_Harry is in her flat._

He’s sitting on her tiny, shabby futon, his legs bent almost to his elbows, because it’s low to the ground and _Harry is in her bloody flat and they are alone._

She doesn’t know what downstairs Maggie was thinking but upstairs-in-her-flat Maggie wants to vomit.

“It’s so cosy and cute,” he states, playing with the fringe of one of her random throw pillows, his eyes glancing around the room. “I wish I had my own place. Right now I just share in the dorms with two other guys.”

“Tried the dorm thing. I like my privacy.” Maggie’s got the electric kettle on, and two chipped, well-loved mugs from home waiting on the counter. She rifles nervously through her cupboard on tiptoes. “Yorkshire Tea all right?” 

“More than all right. Black is fine,” he says, nodding and smiling so widely he might as well be a human dimple. “Is it okay if I look at some of your sketches?” He gestures to an open moleskin, its spine cracked with use, on the scuffed coffee table. She almost says no, remembers the one pad shoved unceremoniously under her mattress with all of her drawings of him, then shrugs an okay. 

A few minutes pass in silence, as Maggie pours the boiling water over the bags and scrounges some digestives from a drawer. She quickly thumbs out a text to Niall _holy shit hazza is over wtf am i doing. pls respond xx_

Harry is pouring over the drawings open on his lap when she carefully brings the steaming mugs over in one hand, and the package of biscuits in the other. 

“Thanks, love,” he says, taking the mug from her, and really, that’s unfair. He blows across the surface of the tea, eyes closed and lashes fanning out, and his cheeks are still dusted pink from the cold. He sips and hums appreciatively.

Maggie wants to keep that image forever, folded up and tucked away underneath her mattress only for her. She settles in on the other end of the futon, trying to keep a friendly distance from him, and draws her knees up to her chest. Her tea cools on the coffee table.

“Good drawings. This is Ed, yeah?” He sounds awestruck, as he bites into a biscuit. “Oh, and the bakery!” 

“Ed’s got an interesting face,” Maggie replies, truthfully. “Thanks, but we’re both at Camberwell and you know full well there are a million people who can _draw_ , Harry.” 

“I can’t. Probably why I take pictures.” He finishes his biscuit, and wipes off the crumbs on his thighs. “You’re still good though. I’d love to see your paintings sometime. You never really talk about them.” 

“Maybe.” She half-shrugs, blushing a little, and takes a long sip of tea. It’s doesn’t feel strange having Harry in her tiny studio flat with its secondhand furniture and dark green walls covered in prints and photos. He sits there, finishing her biscuits and drinking tea, throwing her questions and laughing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Maggie really, really wants to reach out, push the olive woolly sleeves up his long arms to his elbow, and kiss the slender bones of his wrist. She sips her tea instead, heart in her throat.

Her mobile buzzes and she excuses herself to the toilet, pretending that she doesn’t feel his eyes on her back.

Shutting the bathroom door, Maggie realizes she isn’t okay.

_\-- how did he even get into your house though_

_\-- I asked him? oh god oh god oh god oh god_

Maggie splashes water on her face, and her mobile shakes against the counter one last time.

_\-- stop talking to me and just tell him you fucking fancy him. i promise to get you a pint, just as long as i’m the best man at the wedding, eh?_

She responds with _ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuuuuuck you._

Niall doesn’t answer back.

Maggie lets out a long breath and assures herself that she has her shit together (even  though she decidedly does not). She slips out of the bathroom, trying her best to stay calm. Harry is absent from the futon, his mug empty.

He’s by the front door, a confused expression on his face. It takes her a few seconds to realize that he’s holding the empty biscuit package in one hand, and in the other, her bin full of bags of stale croissants. 

Panic bubbles up from her stomach, wraps itself around her heart and lungs, before radiating through her shoulders.  Harry glances, eyes wide and colored with utter confusion, once, twice, three times between her face and the bin, and she watches him piece the last few months together. The light bulb goes off and his mouth falls open. 

Maggie wants to set herself on fire. Self-immolation would feel better than the sheer embarrassment -- that raw, exposed nerve feeling-- of her ridiculous crush. Of the thousands of calories consumed just to see him. Of cataloguing every time he winked or smiled or called her love. Of nights dreaming about his mop of curls. She stands there, hands over her mouth, not being able to say a word, waiting for Harry last-name-unknown to drop everything, run out of her flat and to yell across all of London that she’s a lunatic.  

Harry drops the bin with a thud, the empty biscuit package crinkles as it hits the floor,  and she doesn’t hear him leave. He begins to chuckle, which morphs into full on chest-heaving laughter, like nothing is funnier in the whole world. He leans against the front door, pinching the bridge of his nose as his laughter fills the whole room. It would be infectious if it wasn’t so confusing.

She exhales sharply, forgetting that Harry’s discovered her, hands falling to her sides. “What the fuck is so funny?” 

Harry wipes a few tears from his eyes, hiccuping for air. “You never… Mags, this makes so much sense.”

He’s still chuckling, raspy and amused, as he picks up the bin. He brushes by her to the coffee table, takes a few of the butter-stained, translucent bags out of the trash, and places them on the table. 

“We’re both the biggest bloody idiots,” Harry states, and overturns the first bag. Out plops a croissant, sounding hollow and stale against her table, and a napkin. 

He lifts the napkin to her face, and there’s writing scrawled in bleeding ink.

_Hi Maggie. Text me anytime? 07755 245789. - Harry Styles._

Maggie’s heart is somewhere else. Definitely not in her chest. It might have leapt out of her mouth and onto the floor.

Harry fucking Styles shakes out the second bag, then another, and one more. Four stale, flaky croissants and unfolded napkins lay across Maggie’s coffee table, around their mugs, crumbs dotting her open sketchbook. They’re all messages for Maggie. There’s even a funny drawing of a banana holding his email address.

She finally meets Harry’s eyes. “How long have you been leaving me notes?” It’s a whisper, but it still echoes through the flat.

“A month or so,” he replies, coming closer to her, cautiously. “How long since you ate one?”

“Like, a month.”  With that, Maggie can’t help it as a laugh shakes out of her, taking the weight of the past few months off of her chest and into the air. It’s ridiculous, all of it, and it isn’t just her. It was never just her. “We really are right idiots.”

All of a sudden, Harry steps forward toward Maggie, and he’s closer than he’s ever been before, filling what seemed like miles of space. She’s no longer laughing, the mirth replaced with a hollow ache. Of their own volition, Maggie’s hands rest on his chest and she has no idea how this is happening. How Harry’s inches away, his features blurred, her fingertips grazing the fabric of that olive jumper. 

Harry fits his fingers under her chin, his other hand resting in the crook of her elbow. He exhales, slowly, warm breath dusting over her skin. He’s smiling that smile. “Maggie. Is it okay if I kiss you? I really want to kiss you right now.” 

“I would like that, yeah,” she says, looking up into his green eyes. 

Harry brushes his lips against hers, and it’s as perfect and revelatory as that first bite so many months back. It’s soft at first, careful and slow, like Harry’s planned every drag of lip against hers for the past few months. His hand moves from her elbow to the curve of her hip, and she just might burst from the contact. Maggie can’t recall ever being kissed like this, but truthfully, she doesn’t recall anything before Harry.

She is kissing Harry, he is kissing her, and she can’t fucking believe it. She doesn’t want to kiss anyone else, ever. 

She sighs against his lips, and Maggie pulls closer, nudging them together, their mouths open. Harry obliges, and he tastes sweet, like he snuck chocolate chip cookies behind the counter, and bitter from the tea.  Maggie thinks that she could die here, in this flat, kissing Harry Styles, and it would be a life well-lived.

Harry pulls back, lips red and parted, with a breathy laugh. “Wow.” He dips down and brushes his lips against her bottom lip. “I can’t believe you wasted all those wonderful croissants. I even _made_ some of those.”

Maggie reaches up and tucks a stray curl off Harry’s face, and he looks blissful.  “It seems kind of worth it now, Harry Styles.” 

His breath hitches slightly, and Maggie knows the feeling. “What’s your surname?” he asks, and kisses the tip of her nose. Maggie giggles, because apparently, she’s the type of girl who giggles.

“Evans.”

His long fingers find their way into her hair, cupping the back of her head. “And where are you from originally?”

“Devon.”

“Alright, Maggie Evans from Devon. I’m taking you out this weekend, if that’s okay with you.” Their foreheads touch.

She nods. “Just as long as there are no fucking croissants. I never want to see one again.”

Harry laughs. Maggie doesn’t stop kissing him for hours. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for ages, it seems, and I didn't eat a single croissant. Not as tortuous as it sounds.
> 
> A massive shout out to [becomingshades](http://archiveofourown.org/users/becomingshades/pseuds/becomingshades) and [hannasmiled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasmiled) for all the support and love and pictures of Hazza in beanies. They're wonderful people. The title of this fic actually came from Hanna. Any reference to Mr. John Mayer is their fault. 
> 
> To Kristen: I'm sorry I couldn't work in Maggie's car boot full of croissants. Please forgive me.
> 
> \- A


End file.
